White Walls, White Coats, But No White Picket Fences
by debaterarcherwriter
Summary: Bonds and Vows Healer Draco Malfoy has never seen symptoms like Harry's before...Or has he? The two arch-rivals set out on a quest of healing, adventure, and understanding, leaving everything behind for the chance to answer the question; What do I really want?
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter woke up in an unfamiliar bed. His face tingled slightly and he brought his hands up to rub at it. The effort of it immediately exhausted him-he dropped his arms back onto the mattress. A throbbing pain started up behind his right eye. It was so distracting that he almost didn't feel a cold hand touch his arm.

"Harry!" a familiar voice cried. He tried to lift his head, but fireworks exploded in his head, and the world became a kaleidoscope of color and noise and dizziness. Dimly Harry registered hands lifting his head, prying open his clenched jaw, the cool slide of liquid down his throat.

Slowly his vision returned itself, and he found himself looking into the warm brown eyes of Ginny Weasely. Her face was etched with worry and fatigue.

"Gin," he said in a raspy voice. Reason returning to him, he started to sit up, only to be foiled by Ginny's hands firmly pressing against his chest. She pushed him forcefully back down, saying, "Ah, ah. None of that, you." Harry settled back against the pillows, looking around for the first time since he'd awoke. The room was easily recognizable as a room at St. Mungo's.

It was empty except for him and Ginny, who was wearing a Chudley Cannons sweatshirt over a black cocktail dress that, from the stains on it, had seen better days. The sight of it sparked something in Harry, and he frowned with concentration. Of course-they'd gone out, hadn't they? He remembered the crimson gleam of Ginny's hair in the mirror as she'd clipped on sparkling earrings, but after that…nothing. What happened?

Harry didn't realize he'd asked aloud until he heard a response, drawn as if by magnet from Ginny's lips. "We were at our engagement party," she spoke as if under Verituseram, unwilling but compelled. "We had a row. You started shaking and you fainted. We'd both been drinking," she continued. "Hermione Apparated you here. It was the best solution-we didn't want to risk splinching you."

Harry nodded slowly. It made sense-Hermione had just gotten pregnant and steadfastly refused to drink even a glass of wine.

Ginny's eyes were filling with tears as she clutched at his hand. "Oh, Harry," she sniffled. "I was so afraid you wouldn't wake up." Her face contorted and she lurched forward into his chest, crying softly. Harry wrapped his arms ar**o**und her awkwardly, trying not to be impatient. There were still gaps in his knowledge and he desperately wanted to know what else was going on.

"Miss Weasely, if you could kindly remove yourself from my patient, I would be _ever_ so grateful," a drawling voice rang out. Ginny startled upwards with an irritated snort, but Harry's eyes were glued to the man standing in the doorway.

It was Malfoy, he realized, shocked. He had obviously bulked up a little since his trial, but he was still remarkably slender. The skin on his face was pulled taut over the sharp features of his jaw and cheekbones. Harry felt a pang of concern at that; hadn't Malfoy been eating? He was wearing a white robe, draped loosely over his protruding shoulders. Suddenly he realized what he'd just thought-feeling _concern _for Malfoy, of all people. He blinked furiously and turned to look at Ginny instead.

Her jaw was clenched in obvious anger as she spoke. "There's no way they've assigned _you_ as Harry's Healer, Malfoy." Privately, Harry agreed. With the history between them, the St. Mungo's administrators would never have allowed Malfoy to be in the same room as him, let alone treat him.

Malfoy's detached expression crumbled just slightly at that, and it seemed to Harry that a memory's ghost flickered behind his weary grey eyes. "Yes, well," he said softly, and Harry thought that he sounded unnaturally vulnerable, "this is a special case. Chantwick asked that I come round and take a look at you."

Harry was stunned and confused by his words. Charity Chantwick was the Head Healer of St. Mungo's. Of course, the title was merely for show. As the Head of the largest hospital in the Wizarding World, she did more paperwork than healing, nowadays. He remembered meeting the woman at a fundraiser dinner soon after the war. He'd been struck by her quiet, practical manner. Why on earth would someone so important order for Malfoy to examine him?

Suddenly, the answer hit him. She wouldn't….unless the situation was so severe that it couldn't be helped. Harry's stomach lurched fiercely up, as if he'd been slammed into by a speeding Hippogriff. "Oh, _Merlin_, no," he moaned, covering his face with his hands. "What the bloody fuck is wrong with me?"

Without even peeking between his spread fingers, he knew that Ginny was standing confrontationally between the bed and Malfoy now, having a stare-down with their old school rival. Harry could practically _feel_ her bristling with antagonism. "_Malfoy_," she said, tone colder than he'd ever hear it, "Answer his question. Now."

Malfoy sighed and adjusted his coat, looking for all the world like any other Healer, sick and tired of questions. But it absolutely wouldn't do to refuse the Chosen One what answers he could give, so he took a deep breath and opened his mouth to give them.


	2. Chapter 2

When Draco first walked into that small room in St. Mungo's, he expected to feel loathing. Contempt. Detachment. Amusement, satisfaction, or even delight. He was expecting to feel anything but what he did-worry. Seeing Harry bloody Potter's frame tucked into a hospital bed should have been a much better experience for him. After all, he hated the man. Had always hated him. But watching the stupid Weaslette crying all over him, Draco couldn't help but worry for him, even as she was. (Although no one would ever catch _him _sobbing into anyone's shoulder, that was hardly Malfoy-like.) After all, the wild-haired idiot was the savior of the Wizarding World, and he was quite certain that it would go all sorts of crazed without him.

The Weaslette's snide comment had been more cutting than he'd expected. For a moment, a familiar old scene flashed through his head-him writhing on the ground in pain, Harry's face paling at the blood pouring from his chest. He thought about responding to her snark in kind, but the picture in front of him dissuaded him. They were oh-so charming, the couple. Both of them fit and young, her arm resting protectively in front of him as if to shield him from Draco. He would never have anything like that. Not that he actually _wanted _to, he assured himself hastily. It wasn't envy. More like resignation.

Looking at the couple, Draco felt a sudden reluctance to tell them what he'd been sent to. But it was his job, and he knew that they would be told eventually. "My official position here is Bonds and Vows Healer, but Chantwick figured I'd be your best option for treatment," he began. "Your magic seems to be reactimg negatively to some sort of external factor. We aren't sure what, but what we do know is that this isn't going to fix itself overnight. You've been feeling weak and ill lately, am I right?" Draco knew without asking that this was true, and Harry's nod only confirmed it. "That's generally a sign of a debiliatating disease."

The Weasely girl let out a horrified gasp at the dreaded word, _disease_, and Draco felt a sharp twinge of annoyance at her naivete. When Draco heard Harry's voice for the first time since his trial, it was strangely jolting. "What do we need to do, then?" he asked, sounding unusually calm, Draco thought, for someone being told that they had an unidentifiable disease. "Well," he replied, "for now you'll be released from the hospital while we try to do some research on what we've got. In a few days, we can schedule a meeting to talk about our findings and possible treatment." Harry fixed his emerald-green eyes firmly on Draco and nodded.

Suddenly, all the weariness on the Chosen One's face came into perspective, sharpened as if by the focusing lens of a camera. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize-you must be so tired. I'll leave you be," Draco turned to leave the room, feeling strangely off-kilter. It wasnt until later, sweeping down the hallways, that the current situation fully hit him. Harry Potter, the-Boy-Who-Lived, was sick and being treated by _him_. _Him_, of all people. How strange the world was, nowadays.


End file.
